


Like Coming Home

by octobersymphony



Category: Ski Jumping RPF
Genre: 2006 Winter Olympics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-19
Updated: 2006-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-08 12:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octobersymphony/pseuds/octobersymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things change, others don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> Truly _ancient_ fic, written and set after the Olympic LH Individual competition 2006 in Torino.

"Who let you in?" 

The door fell shut with a bang, giving an even clearer impression of Janne's mood than the harshness of the greeting. It was nothing Martin hadn't expected. He looked up from the magazine he was reading. "The door wasn't locked. I thought you might want some company."

"I don't." The storm that had been brewing on Janne's face for days now seemed to be about to set off. He threw his gloves across the room onto the small table, almost knocking off a water bottle in the process. He briefly looked at Martin. "And I'd appreciate if you moved off my bed." Without any further acknowledgement of the other men's presence, he continued shrugging his clothes off, discarding the jacket and his team sweater as viciously as the gloves before.

"There was a time when you didn't mind me in your bed."

That, at last, gave Janne pause. He shot Martin a hard, withering look that spoke volumes. Martin wondered whether Janne had practiced that one to perfection in front of a mirror, or whether it actually came natural to him. When the hazel eyes didn't soften, Martin sighed and, admitting defeat, pushed himself up and scrambled from the bed. 

"Olympic medals are overrated. You just put them on a shelf where they are reduced to dust catchers and take away space that could be used in a more effective way. You know what they say. 'It's the taking part that counts.'" 

"Right. You certainly believe that, yourself." Words like acid, intended to hurt – and maybe once they would have. Now, though, they only evoked another one of Martin's trademark smirks.

"Yeah, well, better that than drowning in self-pity. Or self-loathing, or self-flagellation, or whatever it is you do these days. We were on top of the world. Now we aren't. It sucks, but life goes on."

"Martin. What can I do to make you go away? I don't think I can take any more of your platitudes tonight." 

Martin took two steps towards the other man until they were standing less than three feet apart. "Alright. No more platitudes." He held up his hands in mock surrender and offered a smile in place of a white flag. _I surrender, you win._ He was a sportsman through and through – he hated losing, always had, always would. But losing to Janne had always been easier than it should have been… both out there, and in the privacy of their quarters. "Shall I go leave you to your bitterness, or shall we make use of the fact that your team kindly left you this nice, cosy room all to yourself?"

And finally, there was a small smile tugging at the corners of Janne's lips – invisible to anyone who didn't know what to look for. But Martin caught it easily, had seen it directed at him too many times to miss it, even if years had passed since then. The answering grin on his face broke free almost instinctively. 

"You're something else," Janne muttered, and reached out for Martin. His hand curved firmly around the nape of Martin's neck; and Martin couldn't fight the impulse to crane his head back and lean into the touch. 

Janne was still watching him intently. "You've mellowed. I barely recognize you without your mood swings."

Martin gave a small shrug. "I successfully pushed you away. Sven left. The rest of the world didn't appreciate my behaving like a spoilt teenager once my performance started to decline." His tone was matter of fact, but he didn't quite manage to keep the pain out completely. Not enough to fool Janne, anyway.

"You miss him."

For a second, Martin pressed his eyes firmly shut. Then he looked at Janne again; and his gaze was clear and honest. The lesson not to try and shield his feelings from Janne was one he was not likely to forget. Not after he had learned it the hard way. "Yes," he admitted. "I also miss winning, and my grandmother's apple pie, and my best friend Robert, who moved away when we were eight. It doesn't matter, because that's not what _this_ is about. We've been through this before, again and again and again, and for some reason, you can't let go of the idea that Sven is in some way standing between us. He's not. And if he ever was, it's only because you let him." 

Another torturous long moment passed, in which Janne only looked at him, as if by staring hard enough he could read his mind. 

"Fair enough," Janne said, at last, and drew him in. And when he was being kissed, it felt like coming home.

Fin.


End file.
